For All Seasons
by The Talentless Hack
Summary: AU, "Everlong"-verse, Serial. Formerly "The Tradition." UP: "Father Knows Best." "Hello, my love."
1. The Tradition

**HAPPY HALLOWEEN FAITHFUL READERSHIP!**

(Sorry for the delay. Writing this didn't work out the way I had hoped to. As usual…_le sigh_.)

So this was inspired by a do-it-at-home costume I saw in a Woman's Day special Halloween mag last year, and it was so goddamn adorable that I had to use it somewhere, and this 'verse seemed like the natural fit.

Set about eight years prior to the beginning of _Everlong_, when Yahiko was just a wee baby thing of almost two, and Kaoru and Sano were ten and twelve, respectively.

Basically, this is straight up mushy family fluff. Those of you keeping up with my LJ know I've been stressed out and (more) crazed (than usual) thanks to Grad School, and this brain candy is a welcome respite from that particular circle of my Personal Hell.

(Do you know how galling it is to know I brought this on myself? IT'S A LOT.)

Anyway. Enjoy my offering, and the day, and be safe whatever you're doing to celebrate! :D

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><p>Disclaimer: Not mine, not now, not ever.<p>

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><p><em>The Tradition<em>

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

Rating: K+…FOR THE KILLER FLUFF

Genre: Family Fluff/Humor

Summary: "Halloween was an odd holiday to get sentimental over…but Tokio was always an odd woman."

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

_October 1, 2001_

She was almost more excited than the kids.

Koshijirou Kamiya couldn't help the laugh that left him when he glanced over at his ex-wife, and found her hopping from one foot to the other, hands clasped in front of her.

"You look like you need to pee," he said.

"It's potty, and if you'd hurry up I wouldn't be acting this way," she said, shooting him a warning look.

"Keh, blame it on me, sure," he said, hefting the box onto his shoulder and carefully descending the ladder. "What's in this, anyway? It's heavy as sh—" Tokio sent him a warning look. "—hell," he said.

"Koshi," she said, exasperated.

"Heck?" he offered, shrugging. "What's in this?"

"The decorations," she said. "The costumes are in another box."

"And that's it?"

"One other box of decorations and then you're done," Tokio said, tugging the top off the big Rubbermaid storage bin and diving right in.

Koshijirou shook his head, but smiled all the same.

Halloween had always been Tokio's favorite holiday, and over the years, it had grown on him too. Still, he never got as into it as she did: she had t-shirts and earrings and pins and tights and even shoes dedicated solely to Halloween. She bought at least two new decorations every year, or made new ones she had read about in special edition Halloween magazines. And she was hands-down the favorite of the class moms when the kids had Halloween parties at school, because she never failed to deliver treats that the kids' classmates went nuts over. It was that last one that showed him, better than any other, that showed just how much having children had nurtured that obsession.

Between Sano and Kaoru, it was obvious that their eldest son had inherited Tokio's zeal for the holiday, and Sano shamelessly fueled his mother's Halloween love. The two of them planned for Halloween year-round, Sano always on the look-out for ideas to make this Halloween even better than last year, and of their two children, it was Sano who had the most fun when it came time to decorate the house and carve the pumpkin and decide on Halloween costumes.

It might have been the fact that he was so obviously a Mama's Boy, but Koshijirou thought it was probably just as much the fact that Tokio and Sano were actually a lot alike, personality-wise.

He hoped, anyway, for his son's sake further down the road.

Koshijirou obligingly muscled down the other two boxes, and grinned when Tokio ripped their lids off and dove into them with the same enthusiasm she had displayed with the first. Decorations soon lay all over the garage floor, like some bizarre minefield, as Tokio began sorting decorations by room. Koshijirou helped as much as she'd let him, and he smiled, maybe a little sadly, when he remembered that they'd done the same thing every year.

Except that now they were just friends, not married.

Tokio had been the one to push for a divorce, not that Koshijirou had been entirely surprised. As much as he loved Tokio, he had never really been in love with her, and he knew the same had been true for her. They had gotten married young, straight out of high school, and Koshijirou had been amazed that a girl as beautiful and vibrant as Tokio had not only wanted to befriend him, but then date him when they both discovered how compatible they were. And Koshijirou couldn't complain about the life they'd built over the past twelve years, and he absolutely did not regret the children they'd had.

But their last three years married hadn't been great, and when they'd gone to counseling and examined their marriage, they'd had to admit that they had reached a crossroads: either they stayed married and allowed a vague sense of dissatisfaction to fester into resentment, or they got divorced and figured out how to raise their kids between them.

Not surprisingly, neither set of parents was for a divorce. Koshijirou knew his mother didn't like Tokio, but he also knew she liked the idea of a divorce even less; his mother was old-fashioned, and divorce was a horrifying and shameful concept for her. Tokio, however, had been adamant:

"I love you, Koshi," she'd told him when they were sitting in the car after their last session with the therapist, still in the parking lot of the office suite. "I don't want to hate or resent you three or four or five years down the road because I feel like you're suffocating me. And I don't want you to feel that way about me."

"What about the kids?" he'd asked, thinking of Sano and Kaoru and how heartbroken they were going to be—and Yahiko, who was just a baby, had just been born not even a month earlier.

"We'll share custody, or one of us will be primary and we'll work out a schedule," she said. "But I'm not raising my kids the way my cousins were raised," she said firmly. "I don't want to be my aunt, staying with a man who makes her unhappy for the kids. Because then everyone's unhappy, and everyone suffers. This'll hurt everybody for a little while, but it'll go away eventually. We're lucky, we don't hate each other," she added with a watery smile as she started crying and sniffling. "That'll help."

And he hadn't believed it at the time, but it had helped. Their amicable divorce had gone a long way toward helping their kids cope. Almost two years later, things were beginning to settle a little, and though Koshijirou sometimes missed his children and his wife, he was honestly happy. Tokio never kept the kids from him, and he had a standing invitation to come to the house whenever he wanted that he took frequent advantage of.

And even though she wasn't his wife anymore, Tokio was still his best friend, and that was enough.

"Oh!" Tokio's low, almost pained gasp drew him out of his head, and he looked at her to find her kneeling in front of the costume box, a witch's hat perched precariously on her head as she looked into the box's depths with wide eyes.

"What?" he asked, carefully maneuvering around a ceramic haunted house that lit up and the construction paper bats she always hung all over the living room to get to her side and peek over her shoulder.

He didn't recognize the orange blob at first, and then the reverent way Tokio brushed her fingers over the plastic it was wrapped in clicked, and Koshijirou smiled and put a hand on her shoulder.

When Sano had been two, they had still been tight for money. So Tokio had made a costume for him, and it had come out so damn cute that she had recycled it for Kaoru when she had reached two.

The infamous goldfish costume.

"Man, I didn't realize we still had that," he said. "It still looks amazing, for being ten years old."

"I took care of it, just in case," she murmured, reaching in and gently taking it out. "He looked so adorable in it," she said with a wistful smile. "I was so heartbroken when he got too big to wear it again next year."

"Is that why Kao wore it three years in a row?" Koshijirou asked, smile widening, and she sent him a flat look.

"She was little enough to fit into it, and we were tight for cash," she muttered, and Koshijirou smiled and wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

"She was the most adorable goldfish three years in a row I ever saw," he assured.

"Feh," was Tokio's response, to which Koshijirou laughed.

They took the costume out of the wrapping, and Koshijirou was surprised by how well it actually had held up:

"The cupcake liners are still good," he said, gently tapping one.

"I make sure it doesn't get messed up," she said. "It's the first costume I ever made for the kids, and it turned out so cute, I just wanted to make sure it kept well."

Koshijirou smiled faintly; Halloween was an odd holiday to get sentimental over…but Tokio was always an odd woman. It fit.

"So I take it Yahiko will be following in his brother and sister's footsteps? Or fins, as it were?" he asked, and Tokio groaned and gave his shoulder a shove.

"You're so corny," she moaned.

"Kaoru thinks I'm funny," he said mildly.

"Because a ten-year-old is _totally_ a good judge of what's funny and what isn't," Tokio said.

"Snark snark snark," Koshijirou shot back, and Tokio laughed, then abruptly leaned over and hugged him.

"Still going trick-or-treating with us this year?" she asked.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he assured, kissing her temple.

"Good," she said, giving his knee a firm pat. "Now go pick up the kids from school, and we'll all decorate together. I should have the cookies done by the time you get back."

"Awesome," he said, practically leaping to his feet, and Tokio laughed. "Time for Yahiko to get up?"

"He's probably already waiting for me, the brat," Tokio said with affection. "Remember how Sano used to slide down the side of his crib like a fireman? Yahiko leans on the railing, face in his hands like this, waiting. And when I come get him from his nap, he gives me this look, like I'm late or something."

Koshijirou smirked.

"It's those bad tempered Takagi genes," he said with a sniff, sticking his nose up into the air. "Us Kamiyas are a sweet and gentle folk."

"Except for Misato the Hun," Tokio said, sticking her tongue out at him.

"Low blow," he warned, although he would have been the first to agree that his mother was…intense.

To put it mildly.

"Fine, fine," she said, rising. "Go get the kids."

"Nag," he taunted, but started for the door leading into the house to grab his keys.

"Jerk," she threw back, just as obnoxious, and Koshijirou just smiled.

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

Sano and Tokio were huddled over the magazines she'd bought at the checkout counter at the grocery, plotting for this year's Halloween. Koshijirou—standing at the kitchen counter, where Kaoru was seated while she carefully decorated the cookies Tokio had baked—watched them with a faint smile, then looked at his daughter.

"Whaddaya think of Mom and Sano, Princess? Should we be worried?"

Kaoru glanced up at the dastardly duo, then rolled her eyes and went back to her cookies.

"They're so weird," Kaoru said.

"Eccentric," Koshijirou corrected. "It's only weird if they start trying to turn the house into a haunted morgue or something full-time."

"Don't say that too loud," Kaoru cautioned, and Koshijirou, deciding to err on the side of caution, nodded.

"Dud," came a voice from the vicinity of his knees, and Koshijirou looked down to find Yahiko holding onto his pant leg, staring up at him expectantly.

"Hey buddy," Koshijirou said, grinning. "Got tired of Mom, huh? We know who you love best."

"Up," Yahiko said, lifting his arms and opening and closing his hands, and Koshijirou chuckled, then squatted down and lifted his youngest up into his arms, settling the boy against his hip as he straightened.

It had been a bone of contention for Tokio that Yahiko's first word had been "Dud," which the family had come to understand was as close as he was getting to saying "Dad." Sano's first word had been "Nana," and Kaoru's had been "No," which might have been Sano's influence; he had been going through his terrible twos (and threes) when Kaoru had been learning to talk, and "No" had been the most said word in the house at the time.

"You'd think as much time as I spend with them—i.e., _their every waking moment_—one of them might have said "Mama" first," she'd muttered when it had been decided that "Dud" was Yahiko-speak for "Dad."

Koshijirou had wisely refrained from comment, and though it still irritated her now, he was able to joke about him being Yahiko's favorite.

A little, anyway.

"Mom's gonna make my costume!" Sano bellowed, running over to the counter.

At twelve, the boy was starting to hit his growth spurt, and Koshijirou knew his eldest was going to be tall; Sano was already the tallest boy in his grade, and he hadn't even really started puberty.

"Oh yeah?' Koshijirou asked, reaching out to ruffle the bird's nest that was his son's hair. "What's she gonna make for you?"

"I'ma be a boxer!" Sano announced, puffing up his chest with a smirk that made his dark eyes gleam. "Mom's gonna even paint a black eye on me, so I look like I won a prize fight!"

"Our boy is bloodthirsty," Tokio said with a smile, coming up behind Sano to enfold him in a hug, and he not only allowed it, he leaned back into it and covered her arms with his.

And it was a little depressing, knowing his son was such a gigantic Mama's Boy, but Koshijirou really couldn't find it in him to mind too much. Sano was their first, and he and Tokio had always had a particularly special bond. He knew how much it meant to his ex-wife that Sano didn't mind affection from his mother, as big as he was. He wondered how long that was going to last, and hoped Tokio wouldn't be too upset when it did.

"I want you to make my costume too, Mommy!" Kaoru said suddenly, and Koshijirou looked over at his daughter and almost laughed at the naked envy in her face.

"Oh yeah? What do you want to be, _băobèi_?" Tokio asked, smiling at Kaoru.

Kaoru's eyes darted to Koshijirou, then returned to Tokio.

"A princess," she said shyly.

"A regular old princess, or an Imperial Princess, like from the stories _Po Po_ tells you?" Tokio asked, and Kaoru's eyes lit up.

"Imperial princess!" she yelped, then clapped her hands over her mouth and flushed.

"Everyone's in homemade costumes this year, then," Tokio said wryly.

"Sure you can swing it?" Koshijirou asked, and Tokio sent him a dry look.

"I'm Super Mom, hon," she said. "It'll be cake."

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

_October 31, 2001_

"Tokio! I'm here!" Koshijirou yelled as he walked into the house, shutting the front door behind him.

"We're upstairs!" came her distant voice, and he climbed the stairs and followed the sounds of commotion to the master bath, where Tokio was patiently rimming Sano's left eye with black and purple face paint to create a pretty realistic shiner.

"Hi Dad!" Sano greeted, waving frantically but at the same time trying not to move too much so Tokio wouldn't make a mistake.

"Hope you gave the other guy hell, kid," Koshijirou said, amused, then chuckled weakly at the stink eye Tokio shot him. "Heck," he amended lamely, coughing pathetically.

"Look at me, Daddy!" Kaoru demanded, twirling in a circle before him. "I'm an Imperial Princess just like in _Po Po_'s stories!"

The ten-year-old was decked out in material that approximated Chinese Imperial court robes, in pinks and blues, since Kaoru was on a pink-and-blue kick at the moment.

"And so you are, Kao," he said, kneeling down in front of her. He raised an eyebrow at the eye shadow and lipstick and blush. "What's the gunk on your face?"

"_Daddy_," Kaoru said in a tone that conveyed how much of an idiot she thought he was. "Imperial Princesses _have_ to wear makeup. Right Mommy?"

"It's a rule," Tokio agreed. "If an Imperial Princess doesn't wear makeup, they take away her Imperial Princess card."

"Perish the thought," Koshijirou muttered, nevertheless smiling at his daughter and fixing her lopsided tiara, which made her beam at him and hug him. "Where's our goldfish?"

"Aiya, he's in his crib," Tokio said, grimacing. "I forgot to pick him up from his nap. Would you grab him and get him into his costume?"

"No problem," Koshijirou said, giving Kaoru a loud smooch on the cheek that made her giggle before he set her down and went to find Yahiko.

The toddler was standing up in his crib, leaning against the railing with his chin in his hands, looking bored, and Koshijirou couldn't help his smirk; this one was destined to have an attitude, clearly.

"Hey buddy," he said, reaching in and taking hold of his son. "Come on, let's get ready for trick-or-treat, yeah? Mommy's got your costume all ready for you, and you're gonna look adorable. And in about…oh, maybe thirteen or fourteen years, when you bring a girl over to the house to meet Mommy, she's going to have the pictures to prove it, so good luck with that."

Once Yahiko had had his snack and had his diaper changed, Koshijirou bundled him up in the goldfish costume. It was when he tugged the hood up over Yahiko's head that a wave of nostalgia washed over him, and he remembered—so vividly—looking down at Sano, wearing his goldfish costume, while Tokio took pictures and went teary-eyed.

"And this is twelve years and three kids later," he murmured.

"Dud," Yahiko said, lifting his arms and opening and closing his hands, and Koshijirou smiled and lifted his son up, taking care not to wrinkle or crease the cupcake liner scales too badly.

"Come on Guppy," he said, "let's show Mommy how you look."

Tokio, of course, went all misty-eyed and sentimental when she saw Yahiko. Sano and Kaoru watched their mother coo over their little brother before exchanging a look. Then:

"That's _my_ costume," Sano said.

"The first one I made for you," Tokio affirmed. "And now all of you kids have worn it."

Kaoru and Sano exchanged another look, and then Kaoru asked, "So…it's like, a tradition?"

"You might say that," Koshijirou replied. "Mommy's sort of big on that kind of thing. Especially on Halloween."

"Halloween traditions are the best kinds, right Sano?" Tokio asked, eyeing their eldest.

And it was only then that Koshijirou realized that Sano was jealous that Yahiko was wearing the goldfish costume. Which really, when he thought about it, made perfect sense: Halloween, after all, was Sano's holiday with his mother, one of the many things they bonded over, but one of the few that they enjoyed together because they were both giant kids. And their eldest loved to hear the story of how Tokio had been at a loss for what to dress him up as that Halloween, until she'd stumbled on the idea in a magazine. Sano had tolerated Kaoru's wearing the costume three years in a row because Tokio had asked him to share that Halloween spirit with his baby sister, and Sano was too good a kid to be miserly about sharing the fun of his favorite holiday.

Sano's dark eyes went from his mother to his father, and finally to Yahiko, who was sucking his thumb and leaning his head against Koshijirou's shoulder.

"Yeah," Sano said finally, sending his mother a tiny smile. "They're the best kinds."

Tokio smiled at him, then grabbed him and hauled him over and kissed him and hugged him.

"All right, ghouls and boils," Tokio said. "Who's ready for candy and the neighborhood haunted house?"

Sano and Kaoru loudly announced that they were, and hurried to fetch their pails. Tokio turned to Koshijirou and sighed.

"I can't wait to get a picture of the three of them," she said, looking starry-eyed, and Koshijirou laughed.

Yeah, he was inclined to agree with Tokio and Sano: Halloween traditions, especially in this family, were absolutely the best kind.

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If you'd like to see the goldfish costume, you can copy and paste this, sans the extra spaces:

http:/ www. womansday. com/ Articles/ Life/ Holidays/ 10-Minute-Halloween-Costumes. html


	2. Ballon

**A/N:** I really have no business doing this to myself. Gods above…

So this was never supposed to turn into a serial or anything like that. It was supposed to be a oneshot and that was that. But my mind said no. And so, what was a oneshot has now become a serial called _For All Seasons_. The first installment has been edited very slightly to add a summary and individual rating for "The Tradition" itself, so you can go back to check that out if you really want to, but it isn't a major change.

This came to me as I was walking the dog one night and contemplating the fact that _The Nutcracker_—one of my favorite ballets—is going to be playing in my neck of the woods very soon. Actually, a show will be happening the weekend of my birthday week, and I've been toying with the idea of going. (As it happens, I _will_ be going; it's the only thing I told my mother I wanted for my birthday, and she bought tickets for us two to go, since the Baby Gator and Brother will be celebrating their anniversary that night. So, yay Hack Mom, lol.)

Anyway. In different parts of the country, they start playing _The Nutcracker_ in either late November or early December, so I thought, "Huh, I bet I could do a oneshot for this for the _Everlong_ 'verse."

And then, this happened. Sigh.

So this is probably (definitely) going to become a serial based around the celebration of certain holidays that, at least in my book, were never better than when you were still a kid and magic was totally real. This one isn't precisely attached to any holiday—it's in between them, actually—but it's shaded by two, Christmas and Thanksgiving, that are also dear to me. This one is actually a birthday fic (which is funny because today _is_ my birthday, lol), and when you're a kid, your birthday _definitely_ counts as a holiday. :D

(An aside: I was actually going to try to finish this and post it on Thanksgiving, and then that didn't happen [clearly]. So I decided to finish and post it by the date in this story, but I had three papers to write for the end of my semester—two 8-9 pagers, and one monster 15 pager—and this week and last week, if it didn't have to do with my papers, I didn't give it the time of day. An-aside-within-an-aside: I have never read so many books in such a short period of time. Don't make the mistake of asking me what I read, though, you'll just get a blank look.)

So this installment switches gears to the other side of the main cast, which was unintentional, and not at all an indication of the pattern in which these will be posted (i. e., first Tokio, then Saitou, then Tokio, etc). In fact, the next one after this is going to stick with this particular cast, just a head's up. This one is set—purely by coincidence, mind—in the same year as the previous one. Misao has just turned nine, Saitou is 34, and they are a little less than two years away from Saitou and Yaso's divorce.

So there you are. Enjoy!

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><p>Disclaimer: Not mine, not now, not ever.<p>

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><p><span>Words To Watch Out For<span>:

Ballon: the appearance of being lightweight and light-footed while jumping. It describes the quality, not the height or speed, of a jump. It is a desirable aesthetic in ballet and other dance genres, making it seem as though a dancer effortlessly becomes airborne, floats in the air, and lands softly.

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><p><em>Ballon<em>

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Rating: K+…for the KILLER FATHER-DAUGHTER FLUFF

Genre: Family Fluff/Humor

Summary: Because birthdays aren't just cake and presents; there's a certain magic there too.

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

_November 30, 2001_

Misao Saitou glanced up from her coloring book to look at the back of her father's head for the tenth time in as many minutes, before once again going back to her coloring book, fairly vibrating with excitement.

Tonight was a Big Girl night, and it was just her and her father, because her parents had gotten into another one of their infamous rows and weren't speaking.

This now made a full month of glacial silence between her parents.

Misao decided that made a new record.

"We're almost there," her father said from the front seat, and Misao grinned and clasped her hands together excitedly, sure she was going to burst with delight.

Since she had been six, Misao had gone to dance class. Her mother had enrolled her in modern dance, just like Yaso had learned when she'd been younger, and Misao had been pleased enough with it…until she had had the chance to see a ballet class.

It had been love at first sight, and Misao had begged her mother to switch her. Yaso had been less pleased with the development and, her father had later explained, hurt that Misao had wanted to change.

"Mommy's sad because she wants you to learn dance like she did when she was your age," he said.

"But I wanna be a ballerina!" Misao wailed, crying full-on at that point, face red and snot dripping.

"Stop crying then," he said, amused, as he dug into his pocket for the pack of tissues he carried around with him for moments just like these. "No one likes soggy ballerinas."

"Will you make Mommy put me in ballet class, Dad?" she asked, sniffling with fat drops still leaking out of her eyes as he mopped up her face.

"I'll talk to Mommy about it," was the noncommittal answer, in her father's typically noncommittal style.

Another fight (or three) had broken out, but once the dust had settled, Misao had gotten her way, and she had ecstatically begun ballet class no less than five months after she'd been bitten by the bug. Yaso had been bitterly disappointed, but she dutifully attended each performance Misao had danced in. Her father, on the other hand, was much more pleased with how things had gone, and didn't mind dropping her off at practice and picking her up, since the studio wasn't that far from where he worked as a professor at Stanford University.

They had sort of bonded over ballet. Misao had known instinctively not to talk about what she'd learned in ballet class to her mother. That only left her father, so he became her one-man audience after class by default, but Misao never really minded all that much. Her father was generally more tolerant of her interests than Yaso was, and rarely patronizing, which Misao appreciated; when her father said she was doing well and learning a lot, he really meant it.

Tonight was a particular treat for Misao: Saitou had gotten tickets to a one night only performance of _The Nutcracker_, which Misao had danced in only once (as a mouse), but never been able to really see. It was different, dancing in the show; sure you saw it, but you rarely got to enjoy it, because other things are constantly going on around you, and you weren't allowed to clutter up the stage wings or sneak out to the sidelines to watch there. She'd only ever seen it up close, and seen pictures from shows that the New York City Ballet had done, and from the film version of _The Nutcracker_ Macaulay Culkin had starred in the year she was born—in fact, she had the book on the seat next to her, and she had browbeat Saitou into letting her take it to the ballet with her, because she wanted to compare the pictures to the performance in real time. Her father hadn't put up nearly the fight she had anticipated, and she thought it might be because tonight was supposed to be her birthday present and he just wanted to ensure smooth sailing.

A few of her friends at school had thought it was weird that her father was giving her a night at the ballet as a birthday present, and Misao had—after getting offended and having a fight with one of her friends who had been particularly judgmental—grudgingly agreed that it probably _was_ weird…on the outside. But Misao understood her father very well, and Hajime Saitou had never treated her like a child once a day in her life. Her father always treated her like an adult, always talked to her like an adult, so Misao had gotten used to having rather startlingly grown-up-in-tone conversations with her father. The result had been a vocabulary that was unusually advanced for her age and an ability to occasionally correct adults on their current events, which always embarrassed the adult, amused her father, and mystified Misao.

Her father was a difficult man to get close to. He was prickly, abrupt and temperamental, but Misao pretty much adored him because of those personality defects rather than in spite of them. He wasn't "Daddy," who could French braid her hair or do animal voices for bedtime stories; he was "Dad," who could get her out of modern dance class and teach her how to insult someone without getting into (too much) trouble with her teacher. In light of that, Misao wouldn't trade her father in for anything.

His skills were way more practical than other dads', as far as she was concerned.

Coloring became a distant memory as soon as Misao saw the performing arts center, lit up like a Christmas tree, and she happily shoved her crayons and coloring book aside to—carefully—get up on her knees in the seat so she could press her face against the window and watch the concert hall get bigger and bigger the closer they got to it.

"Misao, sit in your seat like a person," her father said irritably.

"We're here!" she breathed against the window, fogging her view.

"Sit down, or you're wiping the hand- and forehead-prints off the window when we get home," he warned, and she wrinkled her nose, but once more sat in her seat and smoothed out wrinkles from the skirt of her dress.

He had to threaten her with cleaning the window two more times to get her to stay seated until he had parked in the lot, and by the time Saitou had handed her out of the car and set her down on the ground Misao was shaking like an excited puppy, and babbling in triple time:

"I was reading that the _prima ballerina_'s Russian, Dad, and she's been a ballerina since she was even younger than _me_—did you know that only the _prima ballerina_'s supposed to be called a ballerina, 'cause that means you're the best, an' everyone else's supposed to be called a dancer, 'cause their not as good?—but that's only in France, I think, so maybe in Russia it's different, 'cause France is France an' Russia's Russia—did you know _The Nutcracker_'s Russian, Dad, and it was some guy with a funny name—"

"Breathe," Saitou ordered as he knelt before her to fix her coat, and Misao obediently took in a deep breath, then blew it out and sent her father's bangs dancing and made her giggle.

He rolled his eyes, then said, tugging her collar into order, "The composer was Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky."

"I can't say it like you can," she admitted.

"I gathered," he said dryly. "What else do you know about it?"

Misao beamed at him. "It's pretty old," she said, speaking at a less frenzied pace now. "And it wasn't popular until the mid-twentieth century, which I don't know what that means, but that's what I read."

"Ballpark it to anywhere from the late 1940s to the 1960s," Saitou advised. "Gives you wiggle room."

"Okay," Misao agreed with a nod. "You got the tickets, right Dad?"

"Right. Ready?"

"_Duh_," Misao said, rolling her eyes, and Saitou made an "Of course" sort of gesture that managed to convey more sarcasm than saying the actual words would have.

"All right—hold my hand until we get to our seats," he said, rising to his full height and offering his gloved palm.

Misao cheerfully tucked her own gloved hand into his and they made their way from the lot to the Greater Stanford Performing Arts Center. Once they got into the crowd, Saitou decided he liked the idea of carrying her better than holding her hand, so Misao ended up with the best view of everything, especially since her father was almost a head taller than most of the people there.

The hall made Misao's eyes widen and her mouth tighten into a small "o"; it was the biggest room she had ever seen, surpassing even the lecture halls her father taught in. And the seats were much nicer, the cushions covered in pretty red velvet fabric that was set in ornately carved frames. The carpet was equally impressive, dark and decorated with fancy swirls in gold and red tones that looked like pretty, stylized flames in the ambient lighting. The stage was enormous, the orchestra pit equally so, and Misao felt sudden envy of the people lucky enough to be up in the balconies and the second level…until she saw how close to the stage their seats were…and that they were dead center.

The only way Misao could have been closer to the stage or the orchestra was if she was sitting right on top of either.

"Thank you, Dad," she said, hugging him around the neck, since he was still carrying her.

"You haven't even seen the ballet yet, Misao," he said, amused. "It might be terrible."

"Our seats are still better than everyone else's," she said loftily, and he smirked and squeezed her.

"For better or worse," he said. "You're welcome, Weasel."

She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder while they waited for the couple in front of them to get settled so they could get to their own seats.

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

Misao was so entranced by the ballet that her copy of the book she had been planning to compare notes with lay unopened in her lap until the intermission.

"What do you think so far?" Saitou asked her as the house lights came back on.

"It's the most prettiest thing I've ever seen," Misao said dreamily, and a woman sitting near them laughed into her fist.

"Yeah? How about just the prettiest?" Saitou asked, smirking.

"That too," Misao assured with a sigh.

"How's it stack up against your book?" he asked, tapping the hardcover in her lap, and Misao snorted, then stuck her nose up into the air.

"Real life's _way_ better than some book," she said, and Saitou laughed quietly under his breath.

"Getting snobby in your expertise, there, Weasel?" he teased, giving her braid a gentle tug.

"Marie Belova's pretty, right, Dad?" Misao asked, leaning her head against his arm.

"Sure," he replied.

"You think her hair's really that blond?" Misao wondered.

"Could be."

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you pretend to be interested in talking about the _prima ballerina_'s hair?"

"Yes."

His easy acquiescence made her immediately suspicious, and Misao's forehead crinkled up in thought until it occurred to her that she had not asked precisely the question she had meant to:

"_Will_ you pretend to be interested?" she asked finally, looking up at him.

"Not a chance, Weasel."

"Nuts," Misao mumbled, pouting. "Whaddaya think Mommy's doing right now?"

"Terrorizing a small village," Saitou muttered, though not quite low enough for Misao not to hear.

She ignored it; whenever her parents were in a fight, there was a lot of muttering from her father that might or might not be aspersions on his wife's general character, but he was generally discreet.

Yaso, however, was not, and Misao had heard a few choice complaints about her father over the years that, though she did not understand the majority of them, she had gathered were not good things mostly by her mother's tone and facial expression.

"She's probably out with her friends, if she isn't at home, enjoying the peace and quiet," Saitou said finally. "Mommy works pretty hard, so she enjoys it when she gets to be alone and do whatever she wants."

"Too bad she doesn't like ballet," Misao decided, rubbing her cheek thoughtfully against the arm of her father's suit jacket. "She's missing out on the prettiest show ever."

"Ballet doesn't speak to everyone," Saitou said, shrugging the shoulder of the arm she wasn't leaning against. "So does the fact that you're trying to not-so-subtly slide into my lap mean you'd like to sit with me?"

"Maybe," Misao hedged, eyeing him, and he raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

"Are you going to fall asleep? 'Cause that really wasn't the point of this little outing."

"I'm not even the tiniest little bit tired," she assured, then pinned him with a hopeful look. "So I can sit with you?"

"Sure," he said with a put-upon sigh, and Misao cheerfully abandoned her own seat to make herself comfortable in her father's lap.

Their coats and Misao's book had to be shifted around to reside in her seat for it to work, but by the time the house lights began signaling that the intermission was over and it was time for those patrons who had gotten up to head back to their seats, Misao was quite happily ensconced in her father's lap, eagerly flipping through the program booklet to see what was coming next and reading it aloud to her father, who dutifully listened and corrected her when necessary.

All in all, no different than any other night, with perhaps the exception of the venue.

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

Misao persevered against the urge to fall asleep through the whole last act out of sheer, stubborn bullheadedness, but it was a hard fight: Saitou was warm and comfortable and familiar, and Misao was content enough with all of that that falling asleep in her father's lap was an attractive prospect.

But the desire to see the end of a professional production of _The Nutcracker_ was stronger, and by the time of the curtain call, she was clapping—less enthusiastically than she would have been even an hour earlier, but darn it, she was _still_ clapping—and vaguely wishing she had thought to ask her father if they could buy flowers to present to the dancers when she noticed some people in the audience had flowers in hand.

It was sort of a sleepy blur after that, until Misao found herself being carried in her father's arms, her head on his shoulder and her book tucked under his arm, as they followed the crowd out of the hall.

"It was the prettiest _Nutcracker_ ever," she murmured sleepily.

"I thought so too," he replied, absently rubbing her back through the coat she didn't remember him bundling her into.

The air was chillier on the walk to the parking lot than it had been earlier, and Misao snuggled closer to her father, trying to stay warm.

"How you doing, Weasel?" he asked.

"Sleepy," she said, voice muffled by his coat.

"I see that."

Everything had a strange, dreamy cast to it, and Misao lamented the lack of snow to complete the sense that something magical was at work.

_It'd be just like __**The Nutcracker**__ if it was snowing_, she thought, rubbing her cheek against her father's coat.

When they got to the car, he sat her down in the backseat, buckled her in, then helped her lay down so that she was still buckled but also somewhat comfortable, then covered her with the blanket he kept in the backseat pretty much solely for when she fell asleep on long car trips.

Misao was vaguely aware of her father's ministrations, of the soft, barely there pressure of the fleeting kiss he dropped on the top of her head before he shut the back door and went to the driver's side. She snuggled under the blanket, eyes closed, drifting between waking and sleeping, the memory of all she'd seen tonight flitting through her mind like so much ephemera.

She felt almost weightless, like she could float away, and she decided that this must be what happiness feels like.

"Daddy?" she called.

"Yeah?" came her father's deep cadence over the low whoosh of the heater.

"It was the prettiest birthday ever."

"You're welcome Misao," her father said after a moment, and Misao smiled and allowed herself to drift off to sleep, content with the world.


	3. The New Year

**MERRY HAPPY NEW YEAR FAITHFUL READERSHIP!**

So I got wise this time around, and started this one around my birthday, as I was finishing up my last paper for the semester, because I needed a distraction from talking about whiteness and blackness in Brazil (the premise itself is plenty interesting but after staring at it nonstop for days I NEVER WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT EVER AGAIN).

Anyway, in honor of our favorite Wolf's most auspicious day of birth (Happy Birthday, Saitou-san!), here be my offering.

May it please you! :D

As the note to _Ballon_ stated, this one keeps pace with the cast from last installment, Saitou and Misao. This one is post-Yaso, and thus Saitou's first birthday divorced. Misao is eleven, Saitou's at 36.

Also, this one mentions themes some might not be comfortable with (that of the pro-life/pro-choice nature, if you catch my drift), so anyone not cool with or otherwise able to handle it, **consider this your warning and don't read it**. If you do, and then complain to me about it, there are going to be problems. For you.

That said, please enjoy!

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: Not mine, not now, not ever.<p>

* * *

><p><em>The New Year<em>

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

Rating: T

Genre: Family Fluff/Drama

Summary: "As far as Saitou was concerned, thirty-five-almost-thirty-six and divorced was hardly an achievement, and he was sort of inclined to call 2003…well, shit all-around, really."

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

_December 31, 2003_

Hajime Saitou decided he had had better years.

2003 had not started particularly inauspiciously, aside from the fact that he and his now ex-wife weren't on speaking terms, which admittedly wasn't unusual. After eleven and a half years together, he and Yaso were sort of famous—or was it infamous?—for their fights, which had, at some points, rivaled the Cold War at its height for animosity levels. This was not only a well-known fact, it was an accepted one. In public, Dr. Saitou and Yaso Saitou, Esquire, were perfectly polite, which was usually the sign that they weren't on speaking terms.

The screaming matches were the other sign.

Which one people were treated to usually depended on the topic under argument at the time.

Saitou gloomily considered the far wall, bereft of pictures, photographs or any other ornamentation. When they had met each other—he the teaching assistant for one of her ethics courses, a first year Master's student on the doctoral track, and she a freshman in her second semester at college—Saitou had been charmed by Yaso, who was smart and vivacious and knew exactly what she wanted. They had gotten on well, and within a month were quietly dating, since he _was_ her TA at the time and that could be construed as a conflict of interest. Moving in together a mere six months later had followed from there, and vague plans of marriage somewhere down the line, once he had completed his doctorate and had gotten a permanent placement somewhere.

Only "later" had apparently had other ideas.

The day he found out Yaso was pregnant was not a day Saitou remembered fondly. His reaction had been to ask when she wanted to go get it "taken care of." It was one of his less sensitive moments, and perhaps too one of his most selfish: at the time, he hadn't been thinking about Yaso at all, but himself, and all his plans, and how being saddled with a baby would ruin all of those plans. Yaso hadn't taken the question well, and that had led to the first of their soon-to-be legendary rows. In the end, she had kept the baby—sometimes Saitou thought she had kept it solely out of spite—and he had been very unhappy with her decision, and not at all shy about showing it.

When their parents had found out that they were going to be grandparents, marriage had been the unanimous decision from both sides of the family. Saitou had watched his plans go up in smoke.

He hadn't been happy about it, and every picture of him from their wedding day was stern and grim.

Suffice to say that their first year of marriage was rocky.

It had taken him a long time to forgive Yaso for so thoroughly ruining his careful planning. He had had to support them all on a TA's salary, and he had finally had to break down and essentially beg her parents for a loan. He had hated humbling himself, particularly since after she got pregnant, her family was much cooler with him, silently blaming him for jeopardizing Yaso's chances at getting her degree. His family was equally disappointed in him, though to a lesser degree.

It cut deeply that no one seemed to consider how this situation was affecting him.

His professors and advisor were all sympathetic, and his advisor in particular helped keep him afloat when he might have sunk. It was by his assistance and the grace of God that Saitou had been able to finish his doctorate on time.

A lot of sleepless nights in a row grading papers and planning while helping Yaso deal with a colicky, cranky Misao had had him convinced, for a time, that he wasn't going to make it.

Yaso had eventually graduated, passed the bar and found work at a very respectable law firm, which they owed to Saitou's advisor. Saitou's position at Stanford was likewise his advisor's doing, and Saitou was forever grateful to the man, Professor Isami Kondou, for all of his help.

Life had settled for a time, and they had even been a little happy for a while, Yaso and Saitou, although whenever they started fighting Yaso never hesitated to throw his reaction to her getting pregnant back in his face. It made him cringe now, appalled him to think that there had been a time in his life when he had resented his child.

It was even more shaming that his child knew about that.

It was absolutely humbling that she had forgiven him for it.

And that was the one thing Saitou would never forgive Yaso for.

When the marriage had finally fallen apart, it had been ugly, to the surprise of no one. It might not have escalated to the point it did if Misao had not insisted on living with him. Yaso did not take kindly to the slight—as she perceived it—against her parenting skills, and had lashed out, throwing his feelings when he had first found out about Misao in his daughter's face.

It had been a particular, excruciating kind of agony to see Misao's face go white, watch in her face the precise moment that her heart broke. His own feelings of horror that what he had long considered his most terrible secret was out in the open paled in comparison to knowing, to _seeing_, how much that knowledge hurt his daughter.

"That's not true, right Dad?" she had asked desperately, begging him for a denial…but Saitou was not in the habit of lying to his only child.

He couldn't make himself confirm it either, so he had just stayed quiet.

Silence was just as damning, however, and her face had collapsed into hurt and misery.

He had never been more ashamed of himself in his life.

Yaso, scenting blood, had left with Misao in tow, and Saitou hadn't had the heart to stop her, even knowing that his doing nothing would only make it worse, confirm to Misao that he really didn't want her because he hadn't ever wanted her in the first place.

That had been true, in the beginning. Saitou had always thought he'd be quite content without children, because he was at his core not quite father material. He just didn't like children in general, was not particularly good with them, and had little patience for them. He liked his own space and was selfish with his time, something that Yaso harped on increasingly as the years went by (though she was just as selfish). There was no place in his life, he was certain, for a baby.

To be entirely honest, he had paid lip service to children, but he had always been pretty sure that he would be able to convince Yaso that children weren't for them. She had always been ambitious, and as much as she complained about his focus on his schooling, she was equally focused on her own job. A baby would mean making sacrifices that Saitou knew Yaso wasn't willing to make at the expense of being as successful as she wanted to be in her chosen profession. It just wouldn't work, not if she wanted to eventually make partner as she had long planned, if she had to at the same time deal with the two or three children she had always talked about having. Not unless he was equally willing to make sacrifices, and he wasn't.

But Misao was _his_, and that idea had softened him a little. Her arrival had thawed him out some more, and by the time she was a year old, the knowledge that he had at one point actually told Yaso that she ought to "get rid of it" was embarrassing and mortifying. It was the one thing he had made Yaso swear she would never tell anyone, although of course she hadn't kept it, telling her brothers during one of their uglier fights and making vague dislike morph into outright hate on both sides.

He'd never in a million years dreamed Yaso would tell Misao, though. Not when it would hurt their daughter so.

Logically, he realized that Yaso had done exactly what she was trained to do as an attorney: find weakness and attack. But rationality was no match for an anger that rose out of his belly like a cold fist, and he had sued her for full physical custody of Misao on the grounds that she was an unfit mother. She had, naturally, countersued, making a similar claim as to his capabilities.

Saitou had been sure he was going to lose, because the courts almost always awarded the mother physical custody unless it was an extreme case of unsuitability, sure he was never going to see his daughter again, because Yaso was bitch enough—as angry as she was—to deny him visitation rights, and Misao probably never wanted to see his face ever again anyway. Yaso, he knew, had been equally sure of her success. Which was why, he also knew, she had insisted that Misao get to choose.

The hearing had been in the judge's chambers, and Misao had been pale and solemn and hadn't looked at him. Saitou had miserably tried to tune out the proceedings, so sick to his stomach he hadn't been able to eat anything that morning, and had actually vomited in the restroom fifteen minutes before the hearing; his diaphragm still ached from the dry heaves, and his throat still burned from the bile he'd emptied into the bowl.

His one concession, the only term he had set for agreeing to Yaso's conditions, was that Misao's decision was hers and final. He didn't think he had a prayer in Hell, but he also doubted Misao wanted to live with her mother any more than she wanted to live with the man who had resented her conception. He figured Misao would want to live with Yaso's parents, which Saitou preferred to her living with his soon-to-be ex-wife.

After observing certain legal niceties, the judge had smiled in an encouraging way at Misao and said, "Well, Misao. You know why you're here today, don't you?"

"Yes sir." The dull tone was like a knife in the heart.

_I did that_, he thought with a wince.

"We're trying to sort out who you'll be living with once your mom and dad get divorced and don't live together anymore. Now, your mom's been very insistent on you getting your say, and your dad's been pretty insistent himself on you getting exactly what you want. So, we're just going to have a little talk, you and I, okay?"

"Okay."

The questions that followed were nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Misao had answered them truthfully, and the great majority of her answers painted him in a positive light. Yaso didn't come out quite as well, because she didn't spend nearly as much time with Misao as Saitou did on average, but neither had she come off unfit.

"I guess you love your parents very much, don't you sweetheart?" the judge asked kindly.

There was a pause, ever so slight, before Misao murmured, "Yeah."

_Doubt it_, Saitou thought grimly, knowing she had lied for the first time.

"And I know you wouldn't want to hurt either one of them, would you?"

"No."

"But I understand that you wanted to live with your dad. Is that right? Hm? Do you want to live with your dad?"

He hadn't been able to help it: Saitou had glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and been surprised to find Misao staring at him. His usually extroverted child, who was unable to keep any secret to herself, was a taciturn stranger who looked like his daughter. His gaze had gone back to the floor, self-loathing making it impossible to meet her stare for longer than a few beats.

"Yeah," Misao said after a moment.

"You want to live with your dad?" the judge asked again, a courtesy for which Saitou was thankful, because he was pretty sure he hadn't heard correctly.

"Yes," Misao said more firmly.

"And why is that? Wouldn't you prefer your mom?"

Saitou ignored the furious look Yaso was sending him in favor of watching Misao; there was no way, he thought. No way was she was willing to live with him after what she had learned…

"Dad's never made me feel like he didn't want me," Misao said, staring him dead in the face.

He couldn't quite hold in the wince, and there was a split second where he thought Misao must be picking him because he was the lesser of two evils—but there was no condemnation in her gaze, absolutely no animosity.

It was wholesale forgiveness that he didn't deserve and had done absolutely nothing to earn.

The rest of the hearing was gibberish as far as he was concerned. He sat in a chair, feeling light-headed, until his attorney nudged him and told him he had to wait outside, and he numbly followed a furious Yaso and a silent Misao to the hall while the attorneys conferred with the judge.

"I don't know what the hell you did, but it's _not_ working, Hajime!" Yaso yelled, red-faced with bad temper, and Saitou glared at her.

"Shut up," he snapped. "You're making a spectacle of yourself. Fine place to do it, too, with your profession."

The reminder had shut her up, though it hadn't kept her from sending him a baleful look.

"Come on, Misao," Yaso said sharply.

"I want to sit with Dad," Misao said, sending him a nervous look.

"He doesn't want—"

"_Shut. Up._" he ordered. "She can sit wherever the hell she wants. If she wants to sit on the goddamn roof, she can."

Yaso's cell phone went off, and she looked positively livid when she decided to answer it instead of staying to prove a point.

And that was why, ultimately, Saitou won: Yaso shot herself in the foot by declining the opportunity to prove a point, which would have been very childish but also would have been proof to Misao that she was more important to her mother than work.

Father and daughter had watched Yaso stride away at a fast clip, and he knew by the expression on her face when she'd answered that the poor bastard on the other end was getting his ass chapped.

"She always does that," Misao muttered sullenly.

"Your mom's busy," he said.

"She's always _busy_," was the reply in a flat voice that sounded alien coming from her.

He sat with his hands clasped between his spread knees and looked her over, wondering where his exuberant child had gone to, and praying she came back soon. She finally looked up at him, expression anxious and unsure.

"Dad?" she croaked.

"Yeah."

"…is it really okay if I live with you?"

_I do not deserve you_, he thought, throat closing up for a moment.

"Weasel, I would love it if you lived with me," he managed to get out.

_But I will absolutely take you._

The tiniest smile bloomed on her face, and her jade eyes brightened.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Misao inched over and leaned her head against his shoulder; he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her tightly into his side, then leaned his head down and buried his face in the hair at the crown of her head before breathing in very deeply, and then letting it out.

_I will make it up to you_, he thought as she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. _I don't know how or what I'll do, but I will make it up to you._

He got physical custody, though Yaso insisted on weekly visitation rights. Saitou held his peace, because he knew his ex-wife very well, and when she missed a visit three weeks after the divorce was finalized he wasn't the least bit surprised.

Or when she missed the next five after that.

Neither was Misao, as it happened.

"She's _always_ busy," she had said with an eye-roll.

And now here they were on New Year's Eve, in the two bedroom house they had just moved into that very week, waiting for the ball to drop and 2004 to begin…and for his birthday to officially roll in.

Misao was much more excited by it than he was. Which wasn't unusual, per se, except that he usually didn't mind humoring her.

Then again, he wasn't usually divorced either.

As far as Saitou was concerned, thirty-five-almost-thirty-six and divorced was hardly an achievement, and he was sort of inclined to call 2003…well, shit all-around, really. His lone bright spot had been Misao.

Currently, his lone bright spot was breaking glassware, if the noises he was hearing were as bad as they sounded.

He winced at another ominous _clang!_

"If you break anything, it's coming out of your allowance," he called over his shoulder.

"You better not be peeking!" Misao hollered back from the kitchen.

"Misao, I _can_ see the glasses," he said, exasperated. "_They_ aren't the surprise, especially since we do this _every_ year."

"If you peek I'll kill you, old man! Sit on the couch and watch the countdown!"

"I'm not old, brat," he called irritably, then glared at the TV. "And the countdown hasn't started yet. It's just Dick Clark talking to people."

"Well watch that then," was the haughty reply.

"Mouthy brat," he muttered, though he did as he'd been told, more because there was no other alternative than because he was actually listening to her.

Several _crack!_ and _smash!_ and _bang!_ sounds later, Misao breezed into the living room wearing her traditional festive New Year's hat and carrying two wine glasses of sparkling apple cider.

"What'd you break?" he asked, eyeing her.

"_Nothing_," she said snootily, setting their glasses down on the box serving as a coffee table and flopping onto the couch next to him.

"A likely story," he said under his breath.

"I didn't break one thing," Misao insisted. "How much longer before the ball drops?"

"Ten minutes," he said, reaching over for her braid and giving it a tug.

"You want your present now?" she asked suddenly, pinning him with a look he couldn't quite identify.

"Sure," he said, not because he really wanted it right now but because he knew she wanted to give it to him.

"Okay," she chirped, leaping from the seat to run into her room before appearing a few seconds later with a wrapped square and a card.

The wrapped square surprised him, because he hadn't actually been expecting a gift; his mother or sister or both must have taken her shopping when they had been visiting his parents for Christmas.

"Ta-da!" Misao said, beaming, as she presented his gift with a flourish.

"Thanks Weasel," he said, accepting the gift and card.

"Open the present first," she insisted, snatching the card, and Saitou sighed but did as he'd been ordered.

"It's customary to let the person you're giving the gift to open the card and gift at their discretion, you know," he said.

"Whatever Dad," was the reply with a negligent wave, and he rolled his eyes and decided to drop it.

His present was a very handsome, dark-stained wood picture frame with two 4X6 photos side by side. The one on the left was of him and Misao at her first birthday party, one of the few candid shots Yaso had taken of the day. Yaso had dressed her in a very beautiful dress that had been very expensive, despite Saitou's protests, with the result that Misao had stained the hell out of it. The photo had been taken after Misao had been changed out of the dress and into a pink shirt and pair of denim overalls. She was sitting in Saitou's lap, sucking her thumb as she laid against his chest with half-lidded eyes, and he had his hand on her head; he remembered he'd been combing his fingers through her baby fine hair, because she liked for someone to play with her hair when she was falling asleep. He was looking down at her, probably to check if she was asleep yet, he didn't remember anymore.

The one on the right was a more recent one of the two of them at his mother's for Christmas this year. Misao was sitting in his lap again, wearing black slacks and a bright red sweater, her giant candy-cane earrings prominent and silly-looking in the photo. She was curled up against him, one arm looped around the back of his neck, smiling so widely at the camera that her eyes were just happy little slits. He was looking at the camera, and it was clear from his expression that someone had called his name and he had looked over, expecting that he was going to be asked a question; he didn't even realize a picture was being taken. That had been his mother's doing, and she had cooed over the picture for hours, sighing and saying how adorable they looked. His dress was much more subdued than his daughter's, because Saitou wasn't festive as a rule. His arms were loosely wrapped around Misao, who had plopped into his lap when she had gotten bored of watching whatever movie her cousins had been watching in the den and decided eavesdropping on the adults was more fun.

He stared at the photos for a long time, then looked up at Misao, who was sitting next to him on the couch looking wary.

"You like it?" she asked.

"Absolutely," he said immediately. "It'll look great in my office at work."

She beamed at him, all traces of anxiety gone and hugged him, then shoved the card in his hands.

"Wait 'til midnight to open it," she said.

"Bossy," he said, nevertheless setting the card aside.

He propped the frame up on the makeshift coffee table and saw his birthday cake crowding up the space; she must have gotten it while he'd been looking at the photos.

Misao excitedly counted down to midnight with Dick Clark and the crowd in Times Square, then threw her arms up and yelled, "Happy New Year!" when the ball hit "2004" and the numbers lit up. Saitou, used to it after nine years, only smirked faintly. He was duly attacked with a hug and a kiss, which he returned with his own "Happy New Year, Weasel," when she said "Happy New Year, Dad!" and then they clinked glasses and drank sparkling apple cider and watched the revelers in Times Square.

When the glasses were drained, Misao looked over at him and smiled.

"Happy Birthday, Dad," she said, and he smiled back.

"Thanks Weasel."

"Open your card now, since you forgot to at midnight."

"Oh no, now I only have twenty-three hours and fifty-four minutes before my birthday ends to read my birthday card," he teased, and Misao stuck her tongue out at him.

He opened the envelope and pulled out a homemade card that wiped the smile off his face: the front said "Happy Birthday To The Best Dad Ever" in huge letters over the front, along with balloons and what looked like glitter.

Months later, he was still touchy about his relationship with Misao. There was a part of him that doubted she had actually truly forgiven him, because really, how did you forgive your father for not wanting you when he had first found out about you? Father's Day this year had been dicey, since she had bought him a card that had said "World's Greatest Dad" on it, and it had made him uncomfortable in a way previous such cards had not. It was one thing to keep the secret he had kept for so long and receive such a card; it was quite another for it to be out in the open and receive such a card.

It was shaming for her to give him those cards, because he felt like a fraud. How could anyone consider him "World's Greatest Dad" when he hadn't even wanted to _be_ a dad in the first place?

His gaze flickered to Misao. She was patiently waiting for him to open the card, and with more than a little trepidation, he did, to find a long handwritten note on the inside, starting on the left and continuing on the right:

_Dear Dad,_

_ I saw a bunch of dad birthday cards, but I didn't like any of them, so I decided to make you one like I used to when I was little. A lot of those cards I saw said stuff like "best dad", which I liked, but the stuff inside wasn't as good. So I wrote my own stuff._

_I know you still feel really bad about what Mom did. I know you don't like it when I give you cards that say your the best dad. But you really are the best dad ever. You make sure I do homework & stuff & you give me my allowence for my chores & you always give me the best birthday presents. Plus I have a cool nickname like no one else in my class._

_But you do other stuff, too, like:_

_1) Take me to ballet class & recitals & you go to my recitals, too_

_2) Make pancakes every Sunday & do the crossword with me & teach me stuff when I don't know it_

_3) Take me to educational stuff like the planetarium so I won't be ignorant_ (the word "ignorant" had been erased and rewritten a few times, and there was something oddly sweet about her quoting him verbatim, despite the fact that the quote itself was in no way sweet)

_4) Make sure I talk to Mom even though I don't want to because I'm still mad at her for making you feel bad._

_Mostly, your the best dad in the world because even though you said you didn't want me, you really did after all, because I have friends who have dads who don't do as much stuff with them like you do with me & I think if you really didn't want me, you wouldn't do as much stuff with me or love me as much as you do, even though you don't say it a lot._

_So your the best dad in the world because you didn't have to love me but you do anyway. Happy Birthday Dad!_

_Love, Weasel (AKA Misao)_

Distantly, he was aware of some spelling and grammar issues that they were going to have to revisit, but mostly, his heart hurt and his throat was so tight he couldn't swallow for several seconds.

Wholesale forgiveness that he didn't deserve and had done nothing to earn…except apparently, as far as his daughter was concerned, he did and had.

"Are you okay, Dad?" Misao asked, and when he looked over at her, she looked concerned.

He couldn't speak, so he only nodded, then reached over to tug into his lap so he could hug her. She hugged him back, laying her head on his shoulder.

They didn't say anything for a long time, and then Saitou quietly said, "I'm so lucky you didn't come out like me, Weasel."

Misao laughed and hugged him.

"How come?"

"I don't think I could ever be as forgiving. In fact, I know it."

"You're not so bad, Dad," Misao said, raising her head to look at him.

"Misao, I'm so sorry," he began.

"Dad, I know you don't like kids," Misao pointed out, tugging on one of his crazy bangs. "You always glare at kids in restaurants when they run around screaming and throwing stuff."

"Because other kids suck," Saitou said, frowning, and Misao laughed.

"But you like me, so it's okay." she said, grinning. "Know how I know?"

"How?"

"'Cause you'd yell at Mom if she interrupted you when you were doing school stuff, but you never said anything if I came over and wanted you to play with me or read me a story or if I wanted to tell you something or ask you something. Even when I got older and knew I was probably interrupting you."

"I got pretty lucky," Saitou said. "You could be annoying sometimes, but you were a saint compared to other demon spawn I saw."

"Thanks Dad," Misao said, rolling her eyes, and Saitou smiled and ruffled her hair.

"Weasel and the Wolf forever?" he asked.

"Forever and ever," Misao agreed, hugging him again. "Happy Birthday, Dad."

"Thanks Misao." Pause. "I really do love you, you know that, right?"

"I know. I love you too," Misao assured. She peeked up at him. "Hey Dad? Can we have champagne next New Year's?"

"Hell no," he said easily.

"_Aw_! Come on, Dad! Please?"

"Nope."

"Kids in France get to drink wine!"

"Good for kids in France. In the U.S., you have to wait until you're twenty-one, or I get to lock you in the attic until you're thirty."

Misao sent him a doubtful look.

"That's not a law," she said suspiciously.

"True story," Saitou lied with a straight face.

"I bet Mom'll say it's not," Misao pointed out.

"Your mom might, depending on how annoyed she is at me," he said with calculated thoughtfulness. "You know how she likes to say the opposite of what I say sometimes when she's mad at me."

Misao suddenly looked less sure. She eyed him, trying to see even the slightest hint that he was lying or teasing, but Saitou's poker face was impeccable, and Misao finally huffed.

"I'm checking online!" she threatened, bounding out of his lap toward the den, where his office and the house computer were.

"Good luck figuring out what's legitimate and what isn't," he said with a smirk that widened when she let out a screech of frustration.

"Why do you always have an answer for everything!" she yelled from the den.

"Because I know everything!" he yelled back.

"_Ugh!_"

Saitou laughed, then looked at the coffee table and the cake that was still sitting there, candles ready to be lit and blown out. In a minute, he'd remind Misao about the cake, and she'd come running back in, irritation forgotten in light of the opportunity to torture him with more celebration and festivities. His gaze then fell on the frame, and then to his homemade birthday card. This one was a little too personal to take with him to his office on campus, if only because there was a chance someone might pick it up to look at since it was very clearly homemade, and that tended to make people think it was somehow less invasive to look at than a "professional" card.

But it was definitely going to take pride of place in his home office, on his desk in a place where he'd be able to see it whenever he looked up.

As a reminder of both how far he had come, and how extraordinarily lucky he was.

2004 was shaping up to look a lot brighter than 2003 had been.

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

…I hope no one's too terribly appalled by Saitou's behavior pre-Misao. As to Yaso, explanations on that front are forthcoming…eventually. Remember, I very rarely write anyone completely rotten through and through; there's nothing compelling about a one-dimensional character, for either the writer or the reader. ;p


	4. Be Mine

**HAPPY (UNINTENTIONALLY BELATED BY EXACTLY ONE MONTH) VALENTINE'S DAY, FAITHFUL READERSHIP!**

…**so I reckon it ought to be Happy White Day, huh?**

**Because I didn't finish on time to post for V-Day (*gigglesnort*), I decided to hold off until today, which means you get even more "love" than you were originally going to (scattered throughout the day, and starting with this one). I am spoiling you guys, lol. Also, I've kept the original author message the same, because why not:**

If you're all paired up, hope you enjoyed your day, you crazy kids. And if you're not, never fear: _I'll_ be your Valentine, lol. A little late, perhaps, but, in my official capacity as your virtual Valentine, I come bearing gifts—that's right, I said _gifts_.

One of your gifts is this latest installment of _For All Seasons_. Your other gift is the next episode of the saga that has become the much-beloved Office Series, "Valentine's Day." Be mine, Valentine? : )

So in this snapshot of bygone days in the _Everlong_-verse, we go waaaaaaay back, to when Sano and Kaoru were just little bitty things of six-almost-seven and four, respectively. Obviously, Tokio and Koshijirou are still married, and Yahiko isn't even a glimmer in either of his parents' eyes.

**Take Note:** The explanation behind White Day is based on what I was able to find online. Since it's being explained to a kid, I took the liberty of being sketchy with details. The basic outline is there, it's just dates and exacts I've left out. But you can find those easily enough, if you so desire to know them.

So here's to love of all kinds. Enjoy. : )

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: Not mine, not now, not ever.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Be Mine<em>

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

Rating: T

Summary: Because Valentine's Day isn't just for lovers.

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

_February 2, 1996_

"Mommy!"

Tokio looked up from digging around in her purse, startled by the shout, and found her eldest, Sanosuke, running pell-mell for her, backpack hanging precariously from his shoulders, shoes untied, hair wild. Aside from the juice stain on his Toy Story t-shirt, and the hole in the knee of his jeans—_Third new pair this year_, she thought with a sigh—he seemed fine. The delighted look on his face further soothed her worries, and she smiled and jogged to meet him halfway and enfold him in a hug.

"Hey there little rooster," she said with a grin, ruffling his messy hair.

"Mommy, guess what Ms. Chen said," Sano said, his chubby little face falling into more worried lines, and Tokio's heart started beating a little faster in alarm.

There were several things Sano's Chinese school teacher, Ms. Chen, could have said, and none of them good or complimentary. Ms. Chen was an old school Chinese woman who had fled China during the Cultural Revolution, and she had been a young girl during the Second World War. When Sano had begun in her class, and Tokio and Koshijirou had come in to meet her, the older woman had taken one look at them and turned bright red, in anger. She had also made a few disparaging remarks under her breath about Japanese people that Tokio had ignored, or at least she'd tried to.

Tokio had not had to really deal with too much discrimination because of the uneasy mixture of Asian culture in her background; her half-Chinese, half-French mother and her Japanese father had never discussed it, although her father Kojuro had lamented the relatively scanty Japanese culture his children had picked up, and had complained bitterly that they were more Chinese than Japanese. Mostly, it wasn't addressed. She looked Japanese, so most people assumed she was. She got odd looks when she spoke Mandarin with her mother's side of the family, but most people just accepted it and moved on. In America, there was enough distance from bad blood and war crimes and centuries of disparagement that most people were content to let it lay.

Ms. Chen, unfortunately, was not one of those people.

"What was that?" Tokio asked carefully, shooting a glance toward the older Chinese woman, who was watching them with a frown from some distance away, as usual; unlike with the other parents, Ms. Chen never came to greet Tokio, or talk to her about Sano's progress. Tokio had made one friendly overture in the beginning, and had been rudely rebuffed in front of a few of the other parents, and that one embarrassing time had been more than enough.

"She said Chinese don't have Valentine's Day," Sano said, his little worried frown deepening.

Inwardly, Tokio breathed a sigh of relief, and her heart slowed—she lived in terror of the day that that nasty old witch sent her son home crying, the day her sweet, sensitive little boy's feelings were hurt by a bitter old woman's misdirected anger and resentment.

This was cake, by comparison.

Tokio slipped Sano's backpack off his shoulders and looped it and his lunchbag over one arm, then scooped him up to prop on her hip; he obligingly threw his arms around her neck and snuggled against her.

"She did, huh?" Tokio asked, turning and heading back for the car.

Sano nodded. "She said it's not for real Chinese," he said, a little fretfully, and Tokio felt her temper ignite. "But we're real Chinese, right Mommy?"

"Of course we are," Tokio said immediately, voice firm. "And we're also real Japanese and real French. We're lucky, _hŭzĭ_, because we're a mix of a bunch of different places, we're not just one."

"Do Japanese or French have Valentine's Day?" Sano asked, rubbing his cheek against her shoulder.

"Both," Tokio said, hugging him tight. "And I'll let you in on a secret, little rooster: real Chinese do have Valentine's Day."

Sano's head came up and he sent his mother a delighted look.

"Really?"

"Really," Tokio said with a nod, smiling at him.

"Yay!" Sano cheered, then suddenly frowned. "Then how-come Ms. Chen said Chinese don't have Valentine's Day when I asked?"

_Because she's a bitch_, Tokio thought viciously.

"Maybe they didn't celebrate Valentine's Day in China when she was little," she said instead, knowing that diplomacy—as difficult as it was going to be—was the best policy.

At least until Koshijirou got home, because her husband was _definitely_ going to be hearing about this, and they were _definitely_ going to talk about this.

"Oh," Sano said thoughtfully. "Mommy, how do Chinese have Valentine's Day?"

"Boys give girls chocolate or flowers or both," Tokio said. "And presents. It's just like Valentine's Day here."

"How about French?"

"The same."

"How about Japanese?"

Tokio smiled. "Well, in Japan on Valentine's Day, _girls_ give _boys_ the chocolate."

"The boys don't give the girls anything?" Sano asked, looking outraged. "That's not fair!"

Tokio laughed.

"The boys give the girls chocolate on March 14th, little rooster. It's called White Day."

"Oh. Well that's okay," Sano said, and Tokio laughed again and grabbed her keys out of her pocket to hit the remote on her keychain and unlock her car.

"How-come it's different?" Sano asked as Tokio buckled him into his car seat in the back.

"You know, I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "Papa never said why it was that way, just that it is. But we can ask _Jii-chan_ when we get to their house to pick up Kao, okay? I bet he'd love to tell you."

"Okay Mommy," Sano said cheerfully, and Tokio smiled and leaned over and kissed his cheek, then handed him his snack, a baggie of animal crackers and a juice box.

And as Tokio slid into the driver's seat and glanced in the rearview mirror to watch her son cheerfully munch on animal crackers and swing his feet, she resolved to talk to the director of his Chinese school at the earliest opportunity, and get her son out of Ms. Chen's class ASAP.

No one was going to bully her baby if she had anything to say about it, dammit.

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

Kojuro was delighted when Sano blew into the house he and his wife shared just down the street from his daughter and son-in-law's house, made a beeline right for him, clambered into his lap and asked, "_Jii-chan_, how-come Japanese Valentine's Day is different?"

He had been crushed when Tokio and Koshijirou had enrolled Sano in Chinese school, and insulted, because it seemed like his wife's family and their culture was being more heavily imprinted on his grandson. Kojuro had been in the United States for a while now, but he was still very proud of his culture, and had hoped it would make more of an impression on Sano—and Kaoru, once she was a little older—than it had on his children (although Tokio was the only one who had married a Japanese boy, so perhaps something had stuck).

For his grandson to express an interest in his grandfather's culture, even if it was just Valentine's Day, was like a vindication.

"Who say Japanese Valentine's Day different, Sano-chan?" Kojuro asked, ruffling the boy's wild hair.

"Mommy," Sano said. "She said girls only give boys chocolate on Valentine's Day, and then boys give girls chocolate later on White Day. How-come?"

"Well," Kojuro said, settling back into his chair more comfortably and absently ruffling his grandson's hair, "it was actually accident. When the candy companies first start to advertise Western Valentine's Day in Japan, somebody goofed on how Westerners celebrate it, and they say on Valentine's Day, Western women give their men _choco_. So, that is how we did it for long time. Then, the candy companies got into their heads to make reply day, so they decide it should be exactly one month later. The first time, they tried to get men to give their women marshmallows, but that was not too popular."

"I'd love marshmallows 'steada _choco_," Sano said, snuggling into Kojuro's chest.

"Ah well, what can be done?" Kojuro asked, shrugging. "The second time, though, the candy companies went with white _choco_, and that one went over lots better. So that is why it is called White Day."

"That's okay, I guess," Sano said thoughtfully, and Kojuro looked down to find his grandson frowning thoughtfully.

"What is going on in that head, Sano-chan?" he asked.

"_Jii-chan_, if boys don't give girls presents on Valentine's Day, does that mean I can't give Mommy a Valentine?" the boy asked worriedly, looking up at his grandfather.

Kojuro smiled and smoothed a large, callused hand over Sano's wild hair.

This one was unusually attached to his mother, something he had noticed early on. Unlike his son-in-law, however, Kojuro wasn't worried about Sano turning into a Mama's Boy, and it was because while Tokio did shower the boy with affection at every opportunity, she didn't treat Sano with kid gloves. His daughter allowed her son to be a little boy, to be his own person, and Kojuro saw the affection for what it was: that no matter what Sano did, his mother was always ready to welcome him with an assurance that her son was loved. In return, Sano was happy to reciprocate that affection, and Kojuro hoped that that never changed.

"Well, Sano-chan," Kojuro said, patting his back, "I think, in this case, you could get away with giving Mommy _choco_ on Valentine's Day."

"I could?" Sano asked brightly.

Kojuro hummed, nodding his head. "You are not just _nihonjin_, Sano-chan, you are Chinese and Western also, and we are living in United States. You can choose which Valentine's Day to celebrate."

"Good," Sano said, his little chin jutting out stubbornly. "'Cause in regular school, I'm makin' Mommy a Valentine in art class."

"I am sure Mommy will like very much," Kojuro said.

"_Oi_, _Jii-chan_," Sano said, "could you help me get Mommy _choco_? I wanna get her a big-huge heart all full a _choco_."

"Okay Sano-chan," Kojuro said. "We go now. Tell Mommy I take you out for little while."

"Yay!" Sano cheered, bolting from his lap, and Kojuro watched him go with a faint smile, and rose from his recliner with a sigh, joints popping.

He headed to the front door, passing his wife, daughter and grandson on the way, and his smile widened when he heard Sano excitedly telling his mother that Jii-chan was taking him to get a surprise. He caught his wife's eye as he passed, and he made a gesture that said he'd tell her later. Katsuko nodded, and Kojuro continued on his way, and paused by the coat tree by the door to shrug into his coat and hat.

As he was checking his pockets for keys and wallet, Sano barreled around the corner.

"Ready?" Kojuro asked.

"Yeah!" Sano shouted.

"Put on jacket," Kojuro said, taking the boy's bright red jacket off the coat tree and shaking it out.

"'Kay," Sano cheerfully said, scrambling into his jacket and dutifully zipping it up to his chin. "Ready Jii-chan!"

"Okay," Kojuro said, chuckling, as he opened the front door, and the chuckle turned into a deep, booming laugh when Sano shot out the door toward the serviceable dark green sedan that Kojuro had lovingly nurtured for ten years.

"This will be interesting," he decided as he shut the door.

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

_February 14, 1996_

When the alarm went off at five, the last thing Tokio was expecting was for the door to her and Koshijirou's bedroom to open, and for two children still in pajamas to come in and head straight for her side of the bed.

"Happy Valentine's Day Mommy!" Sano said, scrambling up onto the bed to hug her.

"Happy Bally-time's, Mommy," Kaoru said, reaching up for her, and Tokio, still half asleep, reached down for her and lifted her up to join in on Sano's hug.

"Happy Valentine's Day, babies," Tokio said sleepily, smiling as she hugged her children to her tightly.

"I see how it is," Koshijirou said from his side of the bed, watching the lovefest with amusement obvious on his face. "Mommy gets all the love, and Daddy's a bump on a log."

"Happy Bally-time's Day, Daddy," Kaoru immediately said, wriggling out of her mother's embrace to snuggle against her father.

"See Daddy," Tokio said, grinning, "you get loved on too."

"By one of my favorite girls, too," Koshijirou said, pressing his lips against Kaoru's chubby, baby-soft cheek and kissing her loudly, and the little girl giggled and tried to hide her face in her father's neck.

"Mommy, I got you a Valentine's present," Sano said, leaning back from his mother.

Tokio smiled. "You did?" she asked.

"Uh-huh. You gotta close your eyes, 'kay? 'Cause it's a su'prise," Sano said seriously, and Tokio ruffled his messy hair, kissed his forehead, then lifted her chin and closed her eyes.

"Okay," she said, nodding.

"Yay!" Sano said, and Tokio felt the bed bounce as he jumped away from her to the floor, then pounded down the hall.

Tokio felt Koshijirou reach over and drape an arm over her shoulders, then tug her into him, and she allowed herself to fall against him. He kissed her temple and gave her a squeeze.

"I've got a surprise for you, too," he said, sounding smug.

"Oh yeah?" she asked, smiling. "Is it something I can wear?"

"I learned my lesson," Koshijirou assured with a snort, referring to their first married Valentine's Day together, and the unfortunate little whisper of the nightie that he'd bought Tokio that she had found both uncomfortable and entirely not to her taste. Tokio had worn it for him, but the next day, he'd gotten a long lecture about the difference between buying his wife a Valentine's Day present, and buying his wife a Valentine's Day present that was actually a present for him.

Let it never be said that Koshijrou wasn't a fast learner; Tokio had never again been gifted with nighties she hadn't already expressed a liking for, and never on a holiday, which made her appreciate them more, since it seemed more like a gesture that said, "I think you're smoking hot and I'd love to see you wear something that shows that off," rather than, "This is a transparent attempt at getting holiday sex from you."

"Ooo," Tokio said, wondering if he had planned a date night again. It was probably as bad a cliché as the nightie, but Tokio wholeheartedly approved of this one. Koshijirou was a bona fide romantic, and planning a date night was his specialty; he never failed to make her feel like a princess, and Tokio had come to love the attention, especially once they had children, and getting to just sit together alone had become difficult if not impossible.

"Are your eyes still closed Mommy?" Sano hollered from the hall, little feet pounding back toward the master bedroom.

"Yes!" Tokio called back.

"Kaoru?" Sano said.

Tokio felt a little breeze in front of her face, and then Kaoru chirped, "Mommy's not peeking!"

"'Kay!"

She felt her son barrel back into the room and land on the bed, and her lips quirked into a smile. Sano was a pint-sized tornado, and despite her near constant admonitions to slow down and be careful, he rarely did.

_We'll have to work on that_, Tokio thought ruefully.

She felt Sano place something on her lap, then little hands grabbed hers and placed something that felt like heavy cardstock in her hands.

"Okay Mommy, you can open 'em now," Sano said, and Tokio opened her eyes and looked down at her lap.

The first thing she saw was the cardstock in her hands: it was red and heart-shaped and large, with a smaller cream-colored heart centered within. White ribbon attempted to follow the outline, and about forty percent of it meandered either into the cream heart or off the edges, especially toward the rounded top. On the cream heart—which was dusted with stray and uneven patches of glitter—was Sano's crooked handwriting, alternately large and small but always very little boy-like, in a rainbow of marker colors:

"Happy Valentine's Day Mommy! I love you lots and lots! Your son, Sanosuke Kamiya."

Tokio's heart melted, even as she felt like laughing at the way he'd signed his full name.

"_Hŭzĭ_, did you make this for me?" she asked, smiling at him.

Sano nodded, smiling back. "In regular school. But you gotta look on back, Mommy."

"Oh?" Tokio asked, turning the heart around.

"Yeah, it's a special Valentine."

And so it was: another heart, this one cut from copy paper and its edges not quite as neat as the cream heart on front, was glued to the back. There was also glitter on this side, and the message was written just as askance as Sano's, but with two notable differences; it had been written entirely in pink marker, and the handwriting was wobbly and not as easily legible. Despite the second one, Tokio was able to make out what had been written:

"I love Mommy. Love, Kauru."

"You shared your Valentine with your sister?" Tokio asked, getting teary-eyed.

"Yeah," Sano said, shrugging. "'Cause Kaoru doesn't go to regular school, _or_ Chinese school yet, so she can't have art time and make one for you. I helped her write, too," he added proudly, and Tokio laughed and dragged him into her lap and hugged him and kissed him.

Sano hugged and kissed her back.

"Thank you, little rooster," Tokio murmured, smoothing back hair off his forehead to kiss it. "I love my special Valentine."

"Me, Mommy, me!" Kaoru said, reaching for her, and Tokio smiled and leaned over and kissed each of Kaoru's cheeks.

"Thank you too for my special Valentine, _băobèi_," she said, reaching to give her daughter a squeeze, and Kaoru beamed at her, then settled back into her father's arms contentedly.

"And you get _choco_ too!" Sano said, picking up the forgotten, heart-shaped box and thrusting it into Tokio's arms.

"I do? A special Valentine and _choco_?" Tokio asked, grinning. "I guess we're not having a Japanese Valentine's Day this year, huh?"

"_Jii-chan_ said since I'm Western an' Chinese an' Japanese, I could choose which one to be for Valentine's Day," he confided.

"Oh yeah?" Koshijirou asked, amused. "So are you Western?"

"No," Sano said, shaking his head.

"Chinese?" Tokio asked.

"Uh-uh," Sano replied, shaking his head again.

"So if it isn't Japanese or Chinese or Western, what is it?" Koshijirou asked.

"Uh-uh," Sano said, shrugging. "Just regular."

Tokio smiled, and kissed Sano's forehead.

"Take your sister downstairs," she said. "Your Valentine's Day surprise is waiting for you on the table."

Sano let out a whoop and hugged her, then bounced off the bed and tore around to his father's side to give his father a hug, before he helped Kaoru off the bed, took her hand and hurried her out of the room.

"Don't run, you two! And hold on to the banister!" Tokio said, already pushing the sheets back to follow after them.

"Yes Mommy!" they chorused back.

Tokio had just swung her feet over the edge of the bed when she felt her husband snake an arm around her waist and haul her back.

"Hey!" she said.

Koshijirou squeezed her and kissed her temple again.

"We have good kids," he said, and Tokio sagged into him with a smile.

"Yeah, we do," she agreed, rubbing a hand over the arm around her waist. She leaned her head back to look up at him, and when their eyes met, she smiled, and he returned it, then leaned down and kissed her.

"Happy Valentine's Day, babe," he said.

"Happy Valentine's Day, hon," she said. Pause. "What's my surprise?" she asked, and he grinned.

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise," he said in mock exasperation, rolling his eyes for effect.

Tokio rolled her own eyes in response. "See if you get lucky tonight," she muttered.

"Yeah right, I know that if I liquor you up, I will," he said with a snort, nuzzling her ear.

Tokio couldn't deny that; once she had a good buzz going, she got…well, "friendly" was probably the mildest term for it. All Koshijirou had to do was make sure she had enough to get her there, which usually took three glasses of wine back to back.

"I'm easy, but I'm not cheap," she said ruefully, with a sigh, and Koshijirou laughed and squeezed her.

"I wouldn't have you any other way, babe," he said affectionately, kissing the side of her neck. "Come on, let's go corral our monsters. And then tonight, you and me and a bottle make three."

"Perv," she accused, though she kissed him back before he let her go, and she was able to slip out of bed.

Koshijirou shoved his feet into his ratty house slippers and waited for her by the door while she tugged on her own, then threw an arm around her, and the two of them went downstairs.

When they reached the kitchen and found their children, Koshijirou took one look at them, and then sent his wife a look that made her duck her head sheepishly.

"I might have gone overboard," she said in response to the look.

"You think?" Koshijirou asked dryly, shaking his head.

Tokio had bought each child a little box of Conversation Hearts candies, a heart-shaped box of chocolates, a little stuffed animal holding a stuffed heart with the message "I LUV U" sewn on it, another heart-shaped box—this one a tin—containing more candy, and a Valentine's Day card.

Okay, so it was excessive, but Tokio was a sucker for holidays, and if she saw something cute and appropriate to the occasion, she had absolutely no willpower to speak of.

Sano made a beeline for her and threw his arms around her legs.

"Thank you Mommy!" he said, and she smiled and reached down to ruffle his hair.

"You're welcome, baby," she said.

He looked up at her, then tugged on her sleep pants, and Tokio obligingly crouched down so that they were eye level. Shyly, he reached into the box of Conversation Hearts and dug around until he found the one he wanted, judging from the satisfied look on his face, and then presented it to her.

"You want to share your Conversation Hearts with me?" she asked, touched, because the candies were Sano's favorite (precisely because, she suspected, of the fact that they were chalky rather than in spite of it; her son was an odd duck).

"Yup, but 'specially this one," he said, and Tokio looked at the heart and grinned.

"'Love You'," she murmured. "Me too," she said, holding out her palm to accept the little white candy, and Sano looked pleased when he dropped it in her palm.

Tokio popped the heart in her mouth and crunched it into pieces, then scooped her son up, making him giggle. Koshijirou was already at the table, helping Kaoru decide on which one of her chocolates she could have before breakfast. Sano snuggled against her and contentedly crunched on his Conversation Hearts, and Tokio knew the box would be gone before breakfast was even begun (and his one, allotted piece of chocolate for the day devoured before it was time to go to school), but she held her peace.

Valentine's Day only came around once a year, after all.


	5. Father Knows Best

**Happy Daddy Day!**

So, the idea for this tidbit was inspired by a line from a KakaSaku fanfic on FFdotNet, _House of Crows_, by Her _Naruto_ Holiness, **SilverShine** (if you are interested [and you should be], you may find her under my Favorite Authors.). I wholeheartedly recommend anything she's ever written, ever. Especially _House of Crows_, which is a fantastic example of damn good story-telling, regardless of whether you like the pairing or not.

Anyway, that's my plug for a fellow author.

So, this returns to the other side of the _Everlong_ cast. I will shamelessly admit to an overwhelming fondness and affection for that duo, though Tokio and her kids are pretty high up there (especially the absolute LOVE that is Tokio and Sano's relationship). Somehow, though, Saitou and Misao beat them out. I guess it should come as no surprise (to long-time reader-stalkers, lol) that I have a thing for kids and their dads; I'm not sure what it is, but it positively warms and breaks my heart, all at once. It might be because you expect mothers to have that mysterious maternal instinct, but men aren't _necessarily_ expected to feel the same connection with their offspring. So when they do, it's something really lovely. For me, at any rate.

This peek into years past sees Saitou at 27, and Misao at mere months—seven, or thereabouts. Saitou isn't quite at the point where he's okay with being a dad, but he's getting there. Yaso is periphery supporting cast, as usual (though don't be surprised if she makes an actual appearance soon…ish. You know how I do, Faithful Readership, lol.)

And for those curious, the line that spawned this was: "'Hello, my love.'"

That's it.

And that's all I'm giving you.

A final note of sorts: mood music was "Daughter" by Loudon Wainwright III.

Enjoy. ^_^

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><p>Disclaimer: Not mine, not now, not ever.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Father Knows Best<em>

Rating: T (Because NewDaddy!Saitou is a bit of a potty-mouth)

Genre: Family Fluff/Humor

Summary: "Hello, my love."

_XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX_

_June 19, 1994_

This couch was bullshit.

Hajime Saitou opened aching eyes to a bleary world. He blinked the sleep away, slowly, once, twice, thrice, and then a fourth time, before his vision sharpened. It took a few more moments to realize that his extremely uncomfortable couch wasn't the reason why he had awakened: the distressed, unhappy little sounds from the crib not too far from him were, and Saitou sighed wearily.

So far, Saitou could say with complete confidence that being a father sucked. His mother was scandalized by the opinion, and browbeat him into taking it back (and he had, just to make her _stop already_), but in the privacy of his own mind, his opinion remained. His mother could say Misao was just a colicky baby all she wanted, but Saitou was convinced that this whole "kids" thing just wasn't his bag, and the fact that Misao was having such a miserable time was proof of that.

That Yaso had little interest in Misao didn't help.

He wondered, briefly, as he was dragging himself up off the couch with exhaustion weighing him down, if Yaso or his mother were already up. But Misao had him well-trained, even at almost seven months, and he made his way over to the crib before those agitated little sounds turned into full-on crying and wailing.

It would take hours before she cried herself tired, he had learned from cold, hard experience, and Saitou didn't think he could deal with it, not today.

Misao's face was scrunched up as she whimpered, her cheeks starting to pink up. He sighed again and reached in and picked her up and settled her against his shoulder, then went hunting for a bottle. Misao quieted down for a few moments, gumming a little fist, before she began snuffling his shoulder, and then whimpering again.

"In a minute," he murmured, sticking the bottle of cold formula into the microwave, but as soon as it started to heat, he went looking for a pacifier to keep her busy until the bottle was ready.

This was a familiar routine for Saitou. Very soon after bringing Misao home, Yaso had suddenly lost interest and retreated, not just from the new baby she had lobbied so stridently for, but from _everything_. Saitou had been baffled and appalled to so suddenly become Misao's primary caretaker. He knew nothing about how to take care of a baby, and the idea that he now had to was daunting in a way no single other thing in his life had ever been.

So he'd called his mother and begged for her help.

Masu Saitou had been living with them since two weeks after Misao had come home. It was she who had taught him how to change a diaper and swaddle Misao, burp and bathe and cut her finger- and toenails. It was Masu who taught him how to quiet Misao when she was crying, or when she was colicky.

And it was Masu who took care of Yaso while Saitou bumbled around trying to figure out how not to accidentally kill the child he hadn't even wanted.

It was only recently that Masu had coaxed Yaso into seeing a doctor, and had her daughter-in-law diagnosed with post-partum depression. So far, the Saitou matriarch was trying to get Yaso back to her old self without drugging her up, and not a day went by that Saitou didn't see his mother trying out some new and vaguely frightening concoction courtesy of the local Japanese apothecary's.

Saitou just focused on keeping Misao happy and stayed out of it.

The microwave beeped, and he opened it, grabbed the bottle and elbowed the door shut, then went to the drying rack, where all the bottles and their accompanying nipples were. He grabbed one at random that looked like it would probably fit and then screwed it on with one hand, something that he had gotten to be extraordinarily proficient at these past seven months.

After checking to make sure the formula was at the right temperature (though it was more out of habit than necessity at this point, because he had heating up the formula down to a science), he went back into the living room, flopped down onto the couch that had become his bed, and upon taking the pacifier from Misao's mouth, gently prodded her little rosebud mouth with the bottle nipple until she latched on. Once she was sucking contentedly, he slouched further down into the shitty cushions and gloomily surveyed the coffee table, which was strewn with piles of student work, some of it graded, most of it not—Misao had had a bad night last night, and he had spent half the night driving aimlessly through downtown Stanford before she had finally fallen into a sleep so deep nothing could stir her.

Saitou went through the mental list in his mind, categorizing what could wait and what couldn't, and dreading the office hours he was going to be treated to this week; the first big exam for the long summer semester was next week, and he was always slammed with anxious and freaked-out students for the days leading up to any exams.

Misao was halfway through her bottle when the bedroom door opened, and Masu shuffled out, yawning. As soon as she saw her son and granddaughter, however, she brightened and made a beeline for them.

"Good morning," she murmured, leaning down to kiss his forehead, and then laughing and doing the same for Misao when the baby pushed her bottle away and gave Masu a milky smile.

"Morning." Saitou murmured, allowing Masu and Misao to love on each other until Misao was ready to go back to her bottle, having learned—again, the hard way—that being a baby didn't mean Misao was tractable or willing to go along with things if she didn't feel like it.

"How long has she been up?" Masu asked, rubbing her nose against Misao's, who laughed and grabbed Masu's cheeks.

"'Bout thirty minutes, now," Saitou said, leaning his head back and yawning hugely.

"And how much sleep did you get last night?" Masu asked, cocking her head as she eyed her son.

Saitou stared at the roof while he considered the question, and did a little math in his head.

"Five hours," he decided finally. "Total."

"How much of it uninterrupted?" Masu asked.

"Three of them," he said. "Is she ready for the bottle again?"

"I think she'll take it if you offer," Masu said, and Saitou lifted his head and lifted the bottle back up to Misao's mouth.

She immediately opened her mouth and Saitou stuck the nipple in, then adjusted her against him again, this time so she was leaning back against his chest, so she could track Masu as the older woman rose and went to the kitchen to start breakfast.

"Yaso's still asleep," she said, and Saitou nodded but said nothing; his mother had taken to informing him on Yaso's progress (or lack of the same, more usually) a few weeks after she'd moved in with them and it had dawned on her that Saitou hadn't asked. That lapse in care and concern had earned him a stinging rebuke, but it had _not_ prompted a change in behavior, and Masu had finally just decided to offer up the information whether he asked or not.

It wasn't lack of care or concern, though. It was that Saitou was overwhelmed, with his schooling, with his TA-ship, with Misao. All three of these things demanded huge amounts of his time, and with Yaso well in hand courtesy of his mother, well…he just sort of considered it handled and didn't really deal with it. He was already busy dealing with one of the other three things, usually, and in those rare moments when he wasn't, he was usually comatose.

Masu got breakfast started, then disappeared back into the bedroom. Misao, in the meantime, had finished her bottle, so Saitou set the empty bottle on the coffee table, grabbed one of the burp cloths he always had handy, and threw it over his shoulder before he settled Misao against it and began coaxing a burp from her.

She let out two small ones, but still seemed a little too squirmy, so he rearranged her so she was sitting on his thigh, burp cloth spread over his lap, before he went back to rubbing her back, using his other hand to hold her belly and keep her steady. The next burp was a belch that was accompanied by some of the formula, but Misao only wrinkled her nose and sent him a milky, gummy grin, and Saitou found himself smirking back in spite of himself.

His spit-up learning curve had been abysmal, and it was only in the last month that he'd gotten wise and become a little more proactive about keeping her vomit off of his person. He suspected Misao of gaining some sort of entertainment from her ability to somehow or another always manage to throw up on him, regardless of his mother's insistence that not only was that ridiculous, it was crazy.

"Happy Father's Day!" Masu sang from the bedroom doorway, and Saitou looked over and was surprised by the brightly wrapped gift in her hands.

"Huh?" he asked, gaping at her.

"It's Father's Day today," Masu said with a smile as she sat down next to him. "And since you're now a father, it is my great privilege to wish you, for the first time ever, a Happy Father's Day."

Saitou stared at his mother, then looked at Misao, who was eyeing the gift with interest.

"Oh," he said finally, not sure how he felt. "Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome," she said, beaming still in spite of his lackluster response. "I have cards for you, and a present from all of us. Even Misao," she singsonged, sending her granddaughter a loud kiss when the baby looked up at her and blinked her jade-colored eyes before cooing and grinning again.

"Oh," he settled for once more.

Masu took Misao from him—and he was a little reluctant to give her up, something he was becoming increasingly aware of, but had no real explanation for just yet—and he accepted his cards and present.

The card from his mother was not a surprise; Masu had always been a big fan of greeting cards, and Saitou had a suspicion that Masu singlehandedly provided at least a quarter of the Hallmark Company's annual revenue. As with every card he'd ever gotten from his mother, his first Father's Day card was tasteful, appropriate, and sentimental. He smiled faintly, able to picture his mother standing in the greeting card aisle with determination in her gaze, picking up each card and meticulously examining each of its components before she judged it either worthy or unworthy of a second look.

Yes, Masu Saitou elevated picking the perfect card for any occasion to a high art form.

"Thanks Mom," he said when he had read through the card, and this time it was said in a much warmer and genuine tone than previously.

"You're welcome sweetheart," she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

The second card was a surprise, because it was from Yaso. At least, _ostensibly_ it was: Saitou recognized, once the astonishment had lessened, his mother's hand in the format of the card, and though he saw she had taken great pains to hide it, Saitou knew Masu and not Yaso had written the "personal" message inside. He couldn't say he was disappointed, not really. He knew his wife wasn't feeling like herself, knew she wouldn't have been interested in something so mundane as a card as she was now. But his mother had gone to a lot of trouble to make it seem like Yaso had been behind it, so he played along with the deception, for Masu's sake.

He didn't think he had done a very good job of it, because he saw the sad tinge to her smile, but she ignored it and murmured that yes, she would make sure Yaso heard that he had appreciated her card.

But the third card…this one had been completely unexpected.

It was from Misao.

Well, logically, he knew that this card was as much his mother's doing as Yaso's card was; Misao was seven months old, and not quite up to standing on her own just yet, never mind walking (she crawled fast as all hell, though). There was no way a vertically-challenged seven month old child had been a part of the card-selecting process.

But those were definitely her hand and foot prints on the inside of his card, with his mother's meticulous cursive noting that Misao was 6 months and 3 weeks old at the time (Masu was very into being exact when it came to things like that; Saitou was more willing to settle for approximations, because it didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things).

And there was something so incredibly strange, and arresting, about that. Logically, this wasn't _really_ a card from his daughter. Logically, Misao had no interest in what day it was, or if there was any particular special meaning attached to it.

But the gesture still made his heart flop over in his chest.

He snuck a look at Misao; she was gnawing on one little fist, the other tugging on the two bracelets Masu always wore on her left wrist, gifts from her children for her birthday and Mother's Day respectively (_Dad always has great taste in jewelry_, Saitou thought distractedly).

"Misao, Daddy's looking at you," Masu said, jiggling her granddaughter, who at her name looked up at her grandmother. Masu pointed at Saitou. "Daddy's looking at you."

Misao followed the gesture, and as soon as she saw Saitou staring at her, she grinned at him; he grinned back, and reached out to smooth down the perpetual cowlick that no amount of water could conquer.

"Buh buh," Misao said.

"Thanks," Saitou said dryly, and Masu laughed.

The gift turned out to be a new satchel, for which he was grateful; his old one was much abused and held together pretty much by spit and tape these days—not unlike the man who used it, he thought sardonically.

"Thanks Mom," he said for a third time, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

"You're welcome, Hajime," Masu said. "You deserve something nice."

Involuntarily, his gaze flickered to Misao—happily waving the discarded wrapping paper around—before returning to the satchel; he rubbed the leather with his thumb slowly.

"I have nice things," he said.

"Yes, you do," Masu said warmly. "Here, you take Misao, and I'll clean up this mess and we can have breakfast."

Saitou set the satchel aside and reached for Misao, who immediately let go of the paper to strain forward into his grasp. Masu chuckled as Saitou grabbed and lifted the baby back into his lap.

"A Daddy's Girl if I ever saw one," she said, amused. "This one's picked her favorite."

Saitou eyed his mother but decided against saying that it wasn't picking when there wasn't a choice; Misao barely ever saw her mother, that Saitou was aware of. Little wonder he would be her favorite—he was the only parent she ever saw.

Masu seemed to know what he was thinking, because she wagged a finger at him.

"She's not nearly so eager to get to me as she is to you, Hajime. And she whines for hours when you leave for school."

His heart jerked.

"What?" he asked, a little sharply.

"She misses you," Masu said, rising from the couch, shredded gift wrap and torn ribbon in hand. "She gives me the most pitiful little look and asks for "Buh buh." I didn't realize what "Buh buh" was until just the other day, after you'd gone for your office hours. She stuck her lower lip out and watched the door and asked for "Buh buh." It's really adorable."

"That doesn't mean anything, she makes all sorts of noises for attention," Saitou said, and flushed when his mother sent him a surprised look.

Misao had scared a year off his life when she had figured out how to roll onto her stomach and almost rolled herself right off the couch in the process. In an effort to avoid more nasty surprises further down the line, he had gone to the university library and checked out a few books on the matter of infant development and milestones, which he read during his lunch hour, during a lull in office hours, and on days when he wasn't lecturing or otherwise supposed to pay attention during the class he was TA-ing.

"All of you kids talked early," Masu said after an awkward pause.

"That doesn't mean anything," Saitou insisted, still uncomfortable that he had let it slip that he was aware of where Misao was supposed to be, developmentally. "I called Dad and you and Hiroaki "No" when I was learning how to talk."

"Well you believe what you want," Masu said nonchalantly, continuing on to the kitchen. "But for the record, development varies from baby to baby. The books don't get everything right."

Saitou made a face at her back, then looked back down at Misao, who was beginning to drowse. He settled her against his shoulder, and she murmured a few nonsense sounds before she shoved her fist in her mouth, eyelids drooping. He gently slid her fist out of her mouth, and she wrinkled her nose, but settled down quietly again, and Saitou slouched down in his seat and got comfortable (relatively, anyway).

His gaze returned to the cards, sitting on the coffee table with his work and Misao's empty bottle.

"What a fucked up dichotomy," he muttered, smirking a little.

"Buh buh."

Saitou looked over at Misao and found her watching him.

Something was different, though. Maybe it was just the fact that today was Father's Day, and he was on the other side of that holiday for the first time. Maybe it was his mother's completely ludicrous insistence that Misao had christened _him_ "Buh buh" (even though he knew that wasn't true, and he had a shit ton of scientific evidence—he thought—to back that up). Maybe it was that he spent the vast majority of his time, these days, dodging baby vomit and changing toxic diapers and driving around without a proper destination in mind so a fussy baby might finally settle down and sleep, if he wasn't in class or teaching or grading. Or maybe it was just that it had been seven months since she had come home from the hospital, and he had gotten used to her.

But whatever it was, it was like he was seeing her for the first time.

And she was actually pretty cute…for someone who was constantly plotting the sneakiest way of getting spit-up on all of his clothes, anyway.

She was a tiny little person who depended on him for everything (which was terrifying), with Yaso's eyes and hair, and very little of him in her, unless you counted the stubbornness and temper (which was also terrifying, for different reasons).

But, slowly, it was beginning to dawn on him that this tiny little person who depended on him for everything, with Yaso's eyes and hair, and maybe his difficult personality, was _his_ tiny little person. Yaso was his wife, but Misao was his in a way Yaso would never be, because Misao was a part of him. Probably not the best part (especially if he was right about the personality), but definitely a part.

And that was pretty…profound, when he thought about it.

Saitou grinned at her, and she smiled back, drooling on his shoulder.

"Hello, my love," he murmured, rubbing a hand gently over the back of her head.

"Buh buh." Misao cooed happily.

_Maybe this "kids" thing isn't so bad after all_, he thought, nuzzling her cheek and getting a noseful of that pink baby smell that seemed to generate spontaneously from all babies, no matter what scent their clothes or baby products were.

The smell of milky spit-up hit him at the same moment that he realized his shoulder was warm and wet.

"You are the most disgusting thing in my life," he said with a sigh.

Misao babbled gibberish interspersed with "Buh buhs." Saitou wasn't sure what she was saying, but he was reasonably sure it wasn't agreement.

"You're also lucky you're mine," he said, deciding his first order of business was to start a load of laundry, because this had been his last clean shirt. "Congratulations on being devious, by the way: I totally didn't see that one coming."

He grabbed the burp cloth he had discarded and mopped up the mess on her chin, and didn't bother with what had dribbled onto her onesie; she had a billion others to choose from, and she probably needed a change anyway, or she would soon. Then he sat her on the couch and shrugged out of the shirt, pitching it in the general direction of the laundry basket.

"You'll be coming along, of course," Saitou said to Misao, who watched him with interest from where she sat. "No way you get out of not having to deal with that torture, especially since that tower of gross over there is mostly your fault."

Misao blinked at him; Saitou glowered back.

"Pleading innocent, huh? A likely story."

"What are you doing?" Masu asked, baffled, and Saitou flinched, and sent her a guilty look.

"Nothing," he said.

Masu seemed to decide it wasn't worth pursuing, because she only said breakfast was ready. So Saitou scooped up Misao and deposited her in her high chair, and gave her a handful of Cheerios to occupy her with (actually, so she could work on her developing motor skills, although if anyone asked, he was fully prepared to absolutely deny it and say he just thought you were supposed to give kids Cheerios), while he and his mother ate breakfast. Masu detailed what she planned to do today; Saitou listened and offered his opinions only when asked. Of his own plans for the day, he only said he needed to do laundry, and finish grading.

"What time should I put Misao down for her nap?" Masu asked.

Saitou frowned. "I'll put her down," he said.

Masu raised an eyebrow. "You said you still have a lot to grade," she said slowly.

"She can hang out while I do that," he said, a little defensively.

Masu watched him for a moment, then smiled slowly.

"Okay."

Saitou was suspicious of the blithe capitulation, but decided to just accept it and move on.

In short order, he had dug up a tank top and changed into it and a pair of jeans and socks and shoes after a quick shower. Misao was changed—both her diaper and her clothing—and after strapping on the baby carrier and wedging her into it, they ventured down into the apartment complex's basement, where the ancient washing machines and slightly less ancient dryers were located, and Saitou started a load, then wandered outside.

He got a "Happy Father's Day!" from every person he saw, and every woman cooed and gushed over how adorable Misao was, especially when she hid her face against his chest. After the third time it had happened, Saitou retreated to the basement; Misao was at the stage where strangers made her uncomfortable, and though the advice said not to keep the baby away from strangers just because they freaked the kid out, Saitou didn't want to deal with it today.

Also, the gushing was annoying.

"You're not allowed to gush," Saitou decided, sitting on the washing machine containing their laundry; he had discarded the baby carrier, and Misao was currently snuggled against his chest, tucked in the crook of one arm, drowsing. "Saitous don't gush. Well, Mom—Grandma—she gushes, but she's special, so she's allowed. Otherwise, we don't gush. It's not dignified, and we're a very dignified people. Also, it's annoying. The gushing. So you're not doing that."

There was no response—gibberish or otherwise—from the warm body in his arms, and when he glanced down, he found her dead asleep. A peek at his wristwatch confirmed that it was time for her mid-morning nap…

…which sounded like a great idea, actually.

Saitou carefully maneuvered the baby carrier into something resembling a very uncomfortable pillow, then carefully stretched out over the washing machines, settling Misao—who was starting to whimper and whine in her sleep as she was being moved—on her stomach against his chest, one hand on her back. She quieted almost immediately once the moving stopped, and Saitou relaxed a little. This was an incredibly uncomfortable place to nap—hell, he _almost_ missed the shitty couch, now—but he was too tired to care. If Misao was going to nap, it was in his best interest to have a nap of his own while she was out, because once she woke up, he wouldn't be getting any peace.

And strangely, that thought didn't bother him as much as it would have even yesterday.

_Huh_, he thought sleepily, rubbing his daughter's back gently. _That's funny._

And then he joined his daughter in blissful, contented unconsciousness.

Which was probably not how he had been imagining how he was going to be spending his first Father's Day as a new father.

But that was probably okay anyway: that was undoubtedly much better than anything he had been expecting.

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><p>And since I missed Mommy's Day (on accident), you get a little of that too, in the form of Mama Saitou being all Mama-Bear-awesome with her poor idiot son, lol.<p> 


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